


quitting time

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Soft Cock Sucking, Twitter, Weed Induced Mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29971281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: The house is dark and quiet when the next notification comes. His phone lights up in his pocket, the weight of it a reminder he shouldn’t know every time Lightning McQueen broadcasts something, his heart shouldn’t leap at the knowledge, he shouldn’tcheckto see whatever inane fucking thing he’s said, but. Doc is wired to react where Lightning is concerned. To go off like gun shots after a trip wire. To drool, pavlovian, every goddamned time.Like he said: shit at quitting time. Great at ignoring last call. So without even meaning to he fishes his phone out again, and opens the tweet.I always wanted to fuck himit says. And there, underneath, is a black and white photo of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet.
Relationships: Doc Hudson/Lightning McQueen
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	quitting time

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on that twitter meme. I know twitter didn't exist in 2006 so lets just pretend this takes place later. Im basically going through old doc McQueen WIPs and finishing them because I'm s sucker for these characters and miss them like a phantom limb when I stay away too long. This is like all my other stories about them but I've heard people don't get sick of it, so. here they are <3

Doc’s about to go to bed when it happens. He only has a finger or two left of Jim Beam in the bottom of his glass, the giant square of ice melted down to something small, insubstantial. He is idly wondering if it will frost tonight, since the temperature is dropping and the first desert snow usually happens in early October. He’s turning up the thermostat in preparation when he hears the familiar _ting_ sound from his phone. 

The first feeling is shame. It’s shameful he has his phone set to notify him every time Lightning McQueen tweets, especially now that they’re _friends,_ nowthat he’s his _crew chief._ Now that Lightning isn’t just some cocky blonde hotshot Doc watches on TV and roots for and maybe jacks off to, but someone he’s seen naked, someone he’s seen _cry._ Someone who trusts him for better or for worse. 

Doc has never been good at quitting time, though.

He gazes at the tweet blearily, squinting behind his glasses at the smudged screen of his phone. Then, his heart fucking stops. 

_this edible is weak as shit_ the tweet reads, which is a PR _nightmare._ Luckily, Doc figures out it’s on Lightning’s seldom-used private account, and not his public one. Which at least means fans won’t see it, but still. It’s never great for a NASCAR driver to put incriminating shit on the internet, it’s a conservative sport with fickle sponsors and there are always squeaky clean rookies coming up ready to snatch them away at the slightest scandal. He wonders if he should say something, or let it go. As he chews the inside thoughtfully the initial surge of shame dies down, and he thumbs over his phone with a long, shuddering exhale bitter on his lips. 

He should really get over this thing. It was harmless when Lightning was pixels, but now, it’s fucked up. It’s gone too far. Jacking off to pretty boys on RSN is one thing, but jacking off to the kid you’re mentoring is another. Doc has to draw the line somewhere. He’s gotta pull out before he gets in too deep, extract himself like a thorn before he wheedles in and imbeds himself indelibly. He pockets his phone and coughs, gathering the cellophane and tray from his microwave dinner, throwing them away in the kitchen, and hitting the lights. 

The house is dark and quiet when the next notification comes. His phone lights up in his pocket, the weight of it a reminder he shouldn’t know every time Lightning McQueen broadcasts something, his heart shouldn’t leap at the knowledge, he shouldn’t _check_ to see whatever inane fucking thing he’s said, but. Doc is wired to react where Lightning is concerned. To go off like gun shots after a trip wire. To drool, pavlovian, every goddamned time.

Like he said: shit at quitting time. Great at ignoring last call. So without even meaning to he fishes his phone out again, and opens the tweet. 

_I always wanted to fuck him_ it says. And there, underneath, is a black and white photo of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet. 

The world ices over. Frosts like he knew it would, like it always does in the desert come October.

It’s an old photo. Doc is twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. He’s smirking like he’s in on a joke, tongue pressed into his cheek and hair a sweat-dark wreck, a version of himself from a different lifetime ago, a version who was hopeful and happy and foolish, a whole two years or so before he crashed and spun out and his whole life got cut short in a single split second of crunched metal and black smoke. The world upside down, right sight up, and then upside down again. Again, and always. 

_I always wanted to fuck him,_ Lightning said. 

Doc’s mouth is dry, his heart is in his throat, cracking and falling to bits like something left out in the sun so long it’s become brittle. _He’s high_ Doc tells himself as he reads it over and over again. _He doesn't mean it. He doesn’t mean_ you. _He means that twenty something hotshot just like him. Young. Handsome. Arrogant. He means a ghost. A memory. A pin up. A magazine cover._

Still, he’s torn up inside to know Lightning wants to fuck _any_ version of him. It’s not something he’s ever let himself hope for. He didn’t even know Lightning had thought about fucking men, period. The whole thing feels like a slipped up secret, a _mistake._ And sure enough, when he refreshes the page, the tweet is gone, like he dreamed it up out of want. 

Like Lightning realized what he’d done, and deleted it. Out of shame, maybe. Since’s it one of the things they share. 

Doc can’t sleep when he finally does lie down, pulse still racing. He wonders if he should pretend he never saw it. If that would be easier than trying to bring it up to Lightning. _Have my phone set to tell me every time you say something, kid, and I was up at one am drinking and dreaming about you when you posted my picture. Or else, I got too drunk and wished for something impossible. You tell me. Put me out of my misery, or don't._

And this is how it fucking goes, again and again. Just when he resolves to wiggle away with his life, Lightning McQueen casts a line, and hooks him. Reels him in, until his skin is riddled in holes. The world upside down, right sight up, and then upside down again. Again, and always.

He falls asleep and dreams he’s twenty-four again: Lightning on top of him, inside of him, skin gold-flecked like beach sand in the overhead light of Doc’s childhood bedroom, where posters of old cars watch them through somber headlights. 

—-

Turns out Doc doesn’t need to ask Lightning about it. When he wakes up bleary eyed at seven a.m. like he always does because his back never lets him sleep in longer, he’s got a text that reads: _please tell me you weren't on twitter last night_ followed by another that’s just a block of skull emojis. 

His heart tightens in his chest like a fist prepared to strike. He reads the text over a few times—considers saying _no, you know I hate twitter, kid_ and leaving it at that. But then. There’s that part of him that’s always racing. Always ordering another drink. Pushing ahead relentlessly, damn the consequences, because he’s already crashed hard enough to nearly kill him once, what’s another tumble when he’s this fucking old and lonely? 

_Wasn’t even that good a picture. you got shit taste,_ he sends before thumbing over his mustache resolutely and hauling himself out of bed. He vows he’ll make his coffee and take a few sips before he looks at his phone again, but the answer comes so goddamned quick he doesn’t even have a chance to pour the beans in the grinder. _fuck. Doc I’m so sorry. i was high. i’m so so so sorry_ the text says, and so easily he hears it in Lightning’s voice, that reedy, nasal quality it gets when he's whining. Doc peers through his glasses, carefully reading and rereading every word as he dunks the grounds into a filter, spilling half all over the counter in the process. Nowhere, in the whole text, does Lightning say _I didn't mean it._ So, he takes that and mulls it over in the time it takes for the electric kettle to boil his water. 

Then, after finishing his pour-over, he texts back _I'm not mad. if it had been on your public account, that would be a different story._ Then, because he’s old and this isn't the sort of conversation he wants to have with a fucking screen, he adds: _come over instead of meeting at the butte for practice today. we can talk about it._

_You’re for real not mad ???_ Lightning sends back. 

_nope._ He replies. 

And then he makes _sure_ to leave his phone in the kitchen as he heads into the living room with his fresh cup of coffee. There's grounds swimming in it from the spill and he’s out of creamer, but he’d not gonna let anything ruin his morning, pre-practice routine. Especially not Lightning McQueen, and any folly, idiot’s hope he might be trailing behind him like popped balloons. 

—-

When Lightning arrives, he’s wearing his aviators so Doc can’t see his eyes. He keeps them on even as he let himself in the house and drops his jacket on the hook beside the door. “Ok,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand through his hair so it sticks up in a messy cowlick in back. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“Let’s,” Doc says, keeping his distance, pacing the perimeter of his living room with his arms crossed over his chest like crowbars. He thinks of the time he stumbled down in his robe hours after midnight because someone crashed through his door. He thought it was a burglar, but if was just Lightning drunk off his ass, the night Sally broke up with him for good. Doc almost hit him with a fucking bat but he had the sense to flick a light on before struck and they’re both lucky for that flash of instinct that lurched through his chest as he stalked over the hardwood in the dark. He ended up putting Lightning to bed on the couch, leaving him with a bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of water instead of a head wound. Today doesn’t feel too different from that night, he decides. It could end in a fight, or or something softer. “Was it a joke?” he asks evenly. 

Lightning pauses for a moment, and eventually shakes his head. Maybe his eyes flash beneath the lenses of his sunglasses, but Doc wouldn't know. “It was—a stupid high person thing. I don't know. It was a mistake.” 

Doc purses his lips to silence the stupid, clumsy way his heart trips. “I didn’t know you were—that you thought about men that way.” 

Lightning collapses onto his leather couch, the squeak of it like a labored sigh beneath his weight as he curls up in defeat. “Even old grandpas learn something new every day, I guess,” he offers, which isn't _of course I do, why else would you want me so goddamned relentlessly,_ but it also isn’t _fuck no, don't you dare even think of it._ It’s something uncertain in between, bobbing like a water-logged corpse. After a measured swallow, he adds: “please don’t be mad. I’d never do anything weird, promise. It’s just…it’s like. You’re the Hudson Hornet. I grew up looking at you in glossy magazines and you looked like a movie star and it’s not really my fault. You can’t hold that shit against me. You know what it’s like, when you’re young and just—figuring it out. ” 

The back of Doc’s neck prickles like someone unseen is staring at them through the windows, so he draws the blinds with tremulous, paranoid hands. This is always easier behind closed doors. Underground, at night. Seems absurd, to learn such a thing about his boy in broad desert daylight. “I told you already. M’not mad.” And then, once the sunlight has been shut out like prying eyes, he swallows thickly and ventures, “It was an old picture. It wasn’t _me,_ me. It was—the man I used to be. So, I’m guessing it’s not. You don’t want _me_ now.You couldn’t.” 

Lightning makes a sound in his throat, something between a stifled moan and an incredulous cough. And then, because there’s not enough blue in the world since Doc’s hidden the desert and its blown wide sky behind blackout curtains, Lightning takes his sunglasses off. His eyes aren’t bloodshot or red-rimmed; they’re clear and hard the way they get on the track. They’re winner’s eyes, fighters eyes, focused and narrowed on some sight unseen ahead of him. “Why couldn’t I? You know, some shit gets better with age. Cars. Wine. Whiskey,” he says. 

Doc stares, and doesn’t say a damn word. But the silence fractures Lightning, cracks him open so his yolk leaks out and he sits up, eyes flashing, hair a wreck as he pushes his fingers though it again and again like they’re chasing something. “Yes, Doc, I want you, _you_ you, like actual you, to fuck me,” he spits out. Every word feels like a curse, or else a prayer. Each shiny bead along a rosary chain. “Is that what you want to hear?! Jesus _christ,_ I was ready to never talk about it again but you're _relentless,_ old man, you never just let a thing lay down and die, do you?” 

And sure enough, Doc never was good at quitting time. 

It takes him two strides across the room to make it to the leather couch and Lightning’s fear, which flickers around him in waves like radiation from an H bomb. Doc makes fists in the front of his black Target V-neck and hauls him to his feet, eyes locked on the gasping pink pout of his lips. It’s a mouth he’s looked at a thousand times, and tried _not_ to look at a thousand more. But he’s looking now. “This is your last chance,” Doc murmurs, pressing a thumb to the line of Lightning’s collar-bone, pale and littered in freckles like spilled brown sugar. “To back out. Because you know me, boy. I don’t do things halfway. It’s all or nothing.” 

Lightning’s eyes are wide and bewildered before they flutter to a hot, careful half-mast. He's studying Doc’s face, looking for lies, maybe, but he won’t find any. This is the truth. “I don't want half-way,” he mumbles, solemn like a promise. 

“And you don’t want me at twenty-four? The slick, handsome version before I crashed?” Doc asks again, just to make sure. Because it seems impossible, that this sharp-toothed, new-penny boy with his toothpaste smell and spun-gold hair could want him _here,_ now, as he is. Broken bones and insomnia and three empty cups he keeps screws and carpenter’s pencils in, gathering dust in the shadows of his garage. But then, Lightning licks his lips, and spreads a hand broad and certain over the plane of Doc’s gut, just above his belt. 

“I mean, I’d take any version,” he admits, lashes pale against the flush of his cheek as he closes them, like he’s bracing for a kiss. “But I don’t know that guy. I know you.” 

Doc answers the silent pleading of his mouth, and kisses him. He tries to keep it soft, like asking a question, but he smells too good, like years of aimless want left to ferment into something crazy-making, so before he knows it and without meaning to, he bites him. Lightning groans, melts, tips, and so suddenly they’re on the couch. He tastes like salt and energy drink and Doc thinks, _gotta teach this kid to drink coffee instead of that chemical shit. Gotta teach him everything._ And then he stops thinking because Lightning is opening his mouth, he’s giving him sloppy tongue, he’s locking his fingers behind Doc’s neck to keep him curled over his body like a question mark, even if it hurts his back. 

They don’t stop until McQueen’s spread out on leather with his thighs parted and his jeans around his knees. Doc’s touching him, sure, but not under his briefs, not yet. He’s just cupping the precious weight of his cock in his palm and rolling his balls slow and teasing, swallowing up every choked moan, smooth like Kentucky Bourbon. “Tell me,” he growls against the corner of Lightning’s mouth, thumbing over the wet cotton stretched tight across his cockhead. “Tell me how many times you’ve touched yourself pretending it was me touching you.” 

“Ah—too many to count,” Lightning mumbles. “Before I knew you—when you were just the Hudson Hornet in my mind—I’d fantasize about racing you. About beating you. About you telling me I did good. Then I met you and you _did_ tell me I did good, you started telling me every day, and it stopped being enough. And I realized I wanted you _every_ way. Your mouth on my cock. Your fingers in me.” 

“Jesus, _christ,_ baby,” Doc bites out, fumbling between tender thighs to grip the meat of Lightning’s ass. He’s padded but strong, musculature half-hidden beneath a layer of softness that makes him easy to bite, to get mouthfuls of skin between teeth. Doc chews his chest through his shirt, and doesn’t even care there’s cotton on his tongue. “You can have it all. My mouth. My fingers. And I _know_ you’ll do good, just as good in my bed as you do on the track. My perfect golden boy, winning me so many trophies.” 

“Oh, _fuck,_ Doc,” Lightning keens, lifting his spine into an arch so there’s room for Doc to shove a hand between his body and the leather of his couch. His skin is sweat-slick and sticky against the upholstery, and he wants to lick it up, he wants to see him where he glistens. Doc’s knees are aching and his back is gonna seize up later tonight, but still, he hasn’t felt this fucking young in _decades._ Nothing matters but the boy under him, his salty swollen lips and lurching, pitiful gasps, like something from Doc’s dreams. “Touch me Doc, _please_. Touch me. I’ll be _so_ good.” 

“I know you will. Let’s see your pretty cock,” Doc murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Lightning’s briefs and tugging them down to expose him where he’s red and twitching and dripping with precum. “Look at you, _fuck,”_ he breathes _. “_ So hard and wet. Gonna eat you up.”

Lightning closes his eyes, makes a fist in Doc’s Navajo print throw pillow, and struggles to breathe. “Thought about this so many times,” he admits, throat bobbing over a wreck of swallows. “Thought about you sucking me. I could tell—I just knew you were good at it. That you liked to do it.” 

Doc _does_ like to do it. He’s never even known if he was much good or not, because he loses himself to the task and the taste so completely it’s hard to keep track of anything else. No man has ever complained, though, which probably counts for something. He spreads Lightning’s gold-dusted thighs with certainty and swallows him down slick and hungry, making sure it’s wet, its burning, like a thunderstorm along the desert skyline. 

Lightning cries out. His quads spasm beneath Doc’s flat palms, head thrown back so fucking pretty, so Doc can see the way he’s flushed all the way down his throat, to his chest. He digs his thumbs in, steadying himself as he bobs his head and drools. Lightning’s cock is fat but short, so Doc can fill his mouth without it hitting the back of his throat and gagging him, which means he’s _easy_ to suck deep, to devour. The blood rushes in Doc’s ears and he thinks, _If there’s a god, he’ll let me die here. Between this boy’s thighs. Full but not choking. Perfect fucking fit._

Doc doesn’t die, though. He manages to live through the initial surge of madness and settle into a rhythm, sucking Lightning so his cheeks hollow, kneading his thigh with one hand as he collects the froth of saliva from his pubes from the other. Doc wants _in_ him, he want to feel his heartbeat from the inside out and Lightning _said_ he’d thought about it so, Doc supposes that means his hole is fair game. He thumbs into the damp heat of his crack, rubbing over the furl of muscle where it’s hot and clutching. There’s an initial reflexive resistance but then, when he _does_ open up he’s fire-hot inside, soft and willing. Doc works his way into him, fucking deep with a crook to his wrist and Lightning must fucking love it because in seconds he’s clamped tight and gasping, cock shooting off in the slick trap of Doc’s mouth. He groans around it, pressing his finger deeper, as Lightning shudders and cries and _god,_ yes, he wants those sounds looping inside him forever more, scratchy and timeless like an old record. 

“My good boy, so goddamned perfect,” he mumbles as he pulls off, rubbing his cheek into Lightning’s heaving stomach, gaze fixed on the flex of his cock as it softens, but not all the way. “Bet you could get hard for me again, couldn't you?” he asks, withdrawing his fingers and spitting onto them before tucking them back into the searing vise of Lightning’s body. He whimpers and bears down, hair sweat-dark where it sticks to his brow, chest heaving the way it does when he steps off the treadmill after his usual 5k. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, licking his lips. “I bet—bet if you show me your cock and let me suck on it a little, I’ll get hard for you again.” 

“Fuck,” Doc groans, shaking his head and rutting against the couch. He hasn’t considered Lightning would want something like that—and he was fine with it, fine with the notion of spreading him out and taking what he wanted from him and coming in the comfort of his own hand. But now he's looking at that beautiful mouth, flushed and bitten. Thinking about the lopsided smile he’d study on RSN, wishing he could bite it into curling submission. “Get up,” he orders as he works his fingers from the fluttering clutch of his hole. “Then get on your knees.”

Lightning scrambles off the couch, quick and pretty, reminding Doc how _young_ he is. Eager and unbroken, ready to learn. It’s gut-twisting, and Doc’s breath comes out unsteady with awe as he carefully stands before lowering himself back down to sit on couch. Lightning kicks out of his jeans and pulls his shirt over his head so he’s _naked_ on the floor, back friction red and sweat-shiny, vulnerable like he’s just been reborn. “God you’re the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen,” Doc breathes, carding a hand through his hair before making a fist and holding him steady. “You sure you want this?” he asks, popping the button of his pants and unzipping his fly with his free hand, stunned by the way Lightning is watching with a slack, open, ready mouth. He _looks_ sure—he looks _hungry._ But Doc still wants to hear him say it. 

“So sure,” he promises, licking his pout, tilting forward to lay a burning cheek on Doc’s knee and look up at him with hazy eyes. “Want to suck your cock, old man. Wanted to for so long.” 

It’s a crazy thing, but it must be the truth. He saw it in writing last night, and now, the shape of it on his bitten lips, like a confession. 

“That’s my good boy,” Doc murmurs, heart pounding as he rubs his thumb over that plush lower lip before sinking it into the slick of his mouth to touch his tongue. “ _God_. So fucking wet. Open up.” 

He does, already humping the air as his cock twitches. He wasn’t kidding, it wasn’t a figure of speech. He really _is_ gonna get hard again, from the thickness of Doc’s cock splitting that pretty mouth open, choking him silent. Doc holds himself in one hand, stroking his shaft as he guides Lightning in with the other “Show me what a good baby boy you are,” he grinds out, tapping his cock-head on the flush, sweat-sticky apple of Lightning’s cheek. “Jesus, so pretty. Gonna kill me dead.” 

He turns his head, mouths over Doc with soft lips before fitting them over the crown and suckling experimentally, fingers curling around the base into a loose fist and _goddamn,_ it’s so good. Too-gentle and too-careful which just makes it _better_ , so tentative and eager all at once. He moans around the thickness, face crumpling as he sucks, sinking deeper, the shape of Doc’s cockhead making an obscene bulge in his cheek. Doc brushes his knuckles over it. “Look so gorgeous,” he wheezes, stomach in knots. “Hard already. Just needed an old man’s cock in your mouth, huh?” 

He nods, tongue sloppy and wet, drool bubbling up from the imperfect seal of his lips as he sinks down to his fist. Instead of pulling back up he just _stays_ there, sucking hungrily, throat working in desperate, relentless pulses and _goddamn,_ it’s been so long and Doc is only human. He rakes his nails over Lightning’s scalp, pulling him closer, fucking into his mouth and gagging him a little, but still, he stays. “So good. Doing so fucking _good_ , kid, gonna make me come if you keep using that sweet mouth like that.” 

Lightning’s hips lurch at the praise, fucking into nothing, desperate and greedy and _god,_ Doc wants to touch him, he’ll _come_ if he touches him. So he makes a fist in his hair and pulls him up, loving the filthy sound his mouth makes, the way he whines as his throat’s emptied out. Doc pats the couch beside him. “C’mere,” he orders, gesturing as he tugs him up by his hair. “Lie on your stomach. Want to get my hands on you.” 

Lightning is trembling as he clambers onto the couch, back arched, knees bent, perfect round ass easily within grabbing distance. Doc twists at the waist a bit so he can palm him apart, rub his finger into the humid crease. Lightning whimpers against his thigh until he drags his mouth back. “Suck,” he reminds him, loving the hot, inexpert, eager slide of his mouth as he remembers. “God, you’re so _tight._ Gonna have to train this hole. Get you slick and finger you until you’re begging for my cock.” 

Lightning’s moan vibrates agonizingly around his cock and Doc winces, gasps, fucks his finger into him as he shallowly fucks his perfect mouth. Filling him up wherever he can. 

It’s clear Lightning has no idea what he’s doing; every movement is stilted and clumsy but _never_ for a single moment, unsure. he knows what he wants he just doesn’t know how to get it, doesn’t know how to impale himself up against the pressure of Doc’s finger while bobbing his head at the same time. It’s enough, though—it’s _Lightning,_ and Doc’s fantasized about having him as long as he’s known who he is, so if anything, it’s hard to hold on. “Gonna come, baby, if you want to pull off,” he warns, pressing his finger deeper, up to the second knuckle.

But Lightning _doesn’t_ pull off: he sinks deeper, groaning around Doc, hole fluttering in desperate, sucking pulses, and _damn—_ that’s it. Doc grits it his teeth and shoots off, and even though Lightning flinches at the initial gush of it he comes _back_ to suck him dry, lapping it up and humping the couch in needy, graceless bucks. 

Doc lies there gasping, vision clouded over in static for a few seconds as Lightning licks him idly, nursing in sweet, messy pulses until it’s too much and he’s got to shove him off. But Lightning is persistent, and shifts his way back into his lap, breath hot and labored against Doc’s thigh. “Please, let me,” he begs. “I know _you_ can’t get hard again but I want—I just want you in my mouth. Please.” 

Doc pets his sweaty hair, his tight back, stomach swooping at the hungry, fucked-out rawness to his voice. He’s still so turned on, so desperate, and there’s no way he could deny him any goddamned thing he wants. He works his finger out of the vice-tight grip of his ass before spitting into his palm and rubbing that in, getting him wet and sloppy before pushing back in, the glide easier this time. Lightning moans around his soft cock, the sensation overwhelmingly sensitive, but not at all bad. “You gonna come again for me baby? Sucking me and humping my couch while I fuck you?” Doc asks. 

Lightning pulls in an unsteady breath, ass pulsing around Doc’s knuckles. “Yeah,” he chokes. “Just don’t. Don’t stop any of it. Need every part of you.” 

And the sunlight is pushing in through the blinds, an impossible, determined thing. Doc doesn’t even notice the spill of it, though—only the way Lightning’s leg hair is so gold it’s almost copper, the prettiest color in the whole goddamn world. 

“I won’t. You got all of me,” Doc vows, because hell. He’s never been good at quitting time. 


End file.
